


Macedonian Shenanigans

by Amerou



Series: The Cahill Project [7]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Destruction, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Gift Fic, M/M, Mission Fic, Oral Sex, PWP, Riding, destructo porn was specifically requested, don't know if this qualifies but oh well, orz, teeechnically canon with The Cahill Project
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 01:42:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amerou/pseuds/Amerou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shameless smut. A birthday gift for Julorean, based on the prompt "Clint/Bucky destructo-nookie".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Macedonian Shenanigans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Julorean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julorean/gifts).



> So this is very technically canon with The Cahill Project, and in fact contains a mention of Jason as Clint's brother, but can be read as a stand-alone. 
> 
> I make no apologies for the lack of plot in this porn. :X

Three AM, Republic of Macedonia, July.

"You know," Clint says idly, flexing the pliers in his gloved hand, "if I hadn't seen the files myself, I would never have guessed HYDRA still had an active base way the hell out here. I mean," curl of an exposed wire around a metal screw, before he twists his wrist to lock it in place, "what advantage does this terrain offer, exactly?"

 _"Privacy,"_ suggests the voice in his head, the encryption distortion making the words buzz and spit, like wasps shaken in a glass jar. _"There's no reason to be out here unless you already know the base is there. Besides, Schmidt liked mountains for some reason. Patrol coming up on your three o'clock, ETA ninety seconds."_

"Yeah, yeah, I'm almost done." A few more wires in the correct places, then Clint closes the maintenance panel and swings silently up into the open ceiling joists. Palms and the balls of his feet braced against opposing metal studs, elbows and knees locked, he hangs there effortlessly as a pair of HYDRA soldiers stroll by directly beneath him, chatting idly in a dialect of German that veers rather sharply towards Bulgarian territory and passing a lit cigarette between them. The smoke wafts up into Clint's face, makes him scrunch his nose in distaste.

They never look up, of course. Nobody ever looks up.

Clint gives it a slow count of sixty in his head before he drops soundlessly back down to the tile and taps twice on his earpiece, the agreed-upon signal that he's finished with the objective and heading for the rendezvous. The exfil is a fucking cakewalk - this base may have been in more-or-less continuous operation for close to a century, but the last time they faced a genuine threat was well before the end of the Cold War, and its soldiers have grown complacent, fat, _lazy_ \- and by the time that patrol has finished their shared smoke, Clint's scrambling across the tors, a black shadow against the rock and pines. The man with the plan, his partner and mission control for this particular excursion, has secreted himself on a rocky outcropping camouflaged by a growth of some truly impressive Macedonian pines, a shallow dish in the rock underneath the skirts of the massive _molikas_. It's got a great view of the HYDRA compound, is completely invisible from the air, and exactly the right size for two men and their equipment, as long as they don't mind getting a little cozy. 

By the time Clint hikes the half mile and makes the ascent up the backside of the fucking _mountain_ that Rendezvous One is located on, cozy is precisely what he has in mind. He drops his gear negligently among the rest of their things, his duffle making a muffled _clank_ , before he throws himself down on the rock next to his partner, who is currently sprawled full-length on the bare stone in his black ninja outfit, propped up on his elbows with a set of binocs practically glued to his face. He doesn't turn, doesn't greet Clint, doesn't so much as twitch and risk missing some important indicator of motion in the valley below.

Fuck. Still in work mode.

Clint sighs and squirms around till he's reasonably comfortable for laying on slabs of granite, laying on his front with his chin pillowed on his forearms. He doesn't need binocs to see the compound in crystal-clear HD; the Army took care of that little detail for him, thank you very much. "How's it look?"

"No activity, far as I can tell." Bucky Barnes, crazy-skilled assassin and Clint's gorgeous boyfriend, finally sets the binocs aside, rubs the tips of his fingers hard into his eyes, like he's trying to shove them all the way back through his skull. "Normal movement on the infrared. Radio's silent, no alarms via landline or wifi." When he lets his hands drop, he eyes Clint sidelong, one raised brow the only imperfection in his otherwise impenetrable poker-face. "Holy shit, Clint, I think you may have managed to pull this off without screwing it up." 

"Ya think?" says Clint, faux-snide. "Hit the detonator already, Buck, I'm in the mood for some fireworks." 

"What, you don't to do want the honors?" Bucky smirks at him, but he twists to reach over Clint and grab what Clint has affectionately nicknamed the Det Set Radio. It's an unassuming little thing, the latest of tablet technology at SHIELD, barely bigger than an iPad but about a billion times more expensive - uncrackable encryption and long-wave quantum-trigger signals and all sorts of science-y mathematics shit that Clint doesn't understand but Jason is _really_ excited about - that Bucky casually rakes his fingertips across to unlock. Courtesy Jay, there's a cute little animated interface designed to look like the innards of an old-fashioned suitcase detonator. 

It even has its own blinking red button, labeled with PUSH ME in jaunty, happy-looking letters. Bucky enters all the appropriate codes on the touch-screen keyboard, and mashes the button. Clint flicks his gaze to the compound, anticipating a big boom. 

.... ?

Nothing. 

Bucky enters the codes again, brows frowned in consternation, and hits the button a second time.

Still no reaction from the base itself, though the tablet shows a little pop-up window labeled **BUFFERING: 12%**

"You have _got_ to be shitting me," grumbles Bucky, entirely nonplussed, while Clint falls back to the rock with an arm thrown across his face, attempting to smother hopeless laughter so as not to give away their position. It's several more minutes before he can control himself long enough to prop up on his elbows and grin at the Winter Soldier. 

"So much for technology, eh?" 

Bucky is grumbling as he flicks aside the animated interface and peers directly at the source code; Clint has an inkling that, for all of his frowning concentration, it's just a sea of numbers to him, a hunch that is supported when Bucky tosses the damn thing aside to land on top of Clint's duffel, huffing. "This is _bullshit_ ," he growls, glaring out at the HYDRA base like it's the source of every problem in Bucky Barnes's admittedly complicated life. "Is it so much to just want to sleep in an actual _bed_ more than one night out of five?"

Clint smirks, sprawling backwards on the rock and looking at the stars above. "Could be worse," he notes. "It could be December out here." 

Bucky makes a disgruntled moue in the back of his throat, but Clint's got a point - even the ass-end of eastern Europe is pretty in July, the air tepid but not oppressive, crickets and cicadas chirping and providing as much cover noise as they could ever want. After a minute of enjoying the relative quiet, waiting for the damn building to go up in flames so they can signal for extraction, Clint reaches over to tug on Bucky's shirt. "Hey. Hey, look at me." 

Bucky swivels his head to pin his irritated gaze on the archer, but Clint comes up off of the stone to plant a fierce kiss directly on his lips; by the time he pulls back, Bucky's eyes are a little glazed, his expression softening. There we go. "C'mon, Buck, lighten up. Mission's over, and mostly a success. Nobody's going to come looking for us till we call for extraction. So why don't we.... celebrate early?" he grins wickedly into the small, intimate space between them. Bucky gives him a Look, but before he can try to lecture Clint on the unprofessionalism of getting laid while on the clock, Clint lets his hand travel below the hem of Bucky's shirt, thumb tracing the line of flesh just attainable over the waistband of his pants. 

Bucky's pupils dilate further in the dark, and Clint has just enough time to grin brilliantly in triumph (gotcha) before the Winter Soldier leans over to set his teeth in Clint's neck. 

It's a chaotic tangle of limbs at first, as they struggle to shuck clothing and kick off boots, unable to get enough of each other's skin; Bucky's shirt comes off first, a ball of black fabric chucked into the bushes, Clint's rough hands skating across the Winter Soldier's scarred skin, the cold metal of his arm a sharp contrast to the heat of his frame. Clint presses the tips of his fingers to the ridge of scar tissue where the flesh ends and the prosthetic begins, _hard_ , like he's trying to separate metal from bone, and Bucky moans low in his throat. Clint's pants are next - his boots are yanked off roughly and thrown viciously in separate directions, his belt ripped open, and then there's a distinct tearing noise as Bucky hauls the work-issue pants down Clint's hips. Clint's about to object faintly - getting new uniforms from Requisitions is like pulling fucking teeth these days - but then Bucky's head drops to his crotch, the sniper mouthing wetly at Clint's rapidly-hardening cock through the fabric of his underwear. 

"Ffffuck, Bucky," Clint breathes, struggling to keep the volume of his voice below enemy-discovery levels; Bucky grins victoriously up at him from the region of his groin.

"That's kind of the idea, Barton," he says, calm and cool and as level as if he were giving out orders across their comm line, and okay, that really should _not_ be as hot as it is, the juxtaposition of disheveled!Bucky against professional-ninja!Bucky just makes Clint's dick twitch, he can't explain it, it's a mystery for the ages. From the smug look on the Winter Soldier's face, he knows it, too. 

Bucky tugs at the lower hem of his underwear, and Clint lifts his hips obligingly; off they come in one smooth motion, and then Bucky's got his _mouth_ on Clint's dick and all of a sudden Clint has his hands in Bucky's hair, before he remembers himself and transfers them to his shoulders. Bad form, old chap, c'mon, you know better than that. From the way Buck laughs with his cock in his mouth, though, he finds the stuttering motion amusing. Clint finds the vibration from his laughter makes spikes of pleasure jolt straight up his spine, and it takes a colossal act of self-discipline not to buck his hips like a fucking bronco. 

One of Clint's favorite things, when they do this, is the constant contrast of sensation: Bucky's mouth, wet, hot as a furnace, against the rub and caress of his metal fingers, cold, smooth and unyielding, and his natural hand somewhere in the middle, warm but rough with calluses. It doesn't take much before Clint is panting like a dog in summer heat, his back arched, hips making microcircles against the rock when he isn't able to completely quell the urge to move. "Buck, Bucky, Jesus, stop," he manages to get out into the open air, breathing harder than he had when he scaled the goddamn cliffside to reach the camp, and Bucky leans his cheek against the hollow of Clint's hip, an obscene mockery of relaxation with Clint's dick bobbing inches away from his face. 

"Did I hear the word stop?" he purrs, mischievous, and Clint manages to get control of his flailing limbs long enough to tug gently on Bucky's hair. 

"You're going to ruin the main event." He tries to say it sternly, but it only comes out breathy, eager, wanting; Bucky, affecting being greatly put-upon, sits back on his heels and slithers out of his own pants, the process efficient and fascinating to watch. Not that Clint gets much of a chance at it - he's too easily distracted by Bucky's own member, clear erect evidence that Bucky himself is having a pretty good time. Bucky, efficient at other things than stripping down to the skin, straddles Clint's thighs and leans over to rummage in his bags, Clint meantime skimming his palms up and down the Winter Soldier's legs and hips. 

"No underwear, Buck? If I didn't know better, I'd think you planned this," he grins, glancing over at the tablet. Still buffering, though it's now in the forty-percent range. 

"I don't plan for equipment failure, if that's what you're thinking," drawls Bucky, finally coming up with a tube of something suspiciously clear and slick-looking. "But maybe the celebration part, yeah, I was looking forward to that." 

"No equipment failures _here_ , at least," Clint notes playfully, just because he can, pumping Bucky's cock once in his big palm; Bucky shudders, his shoulders twitching, and practically shoves the tube into Clint's other hand. Clint takes the opportunity to slick up his hand in a manner than is as slow and thorough as possible - from the _goddammit Clint_ look Bucky gives him, he's just as eager to be on with this as Clint is - and then he tracks backwards from Bucky's balls to his opening, teasing in a single finger, slowly enough to allow Bucky to acclimate to the intrusion. Another one of Clint's favorite things is watching the Winter Soldier slowly unravel above him, the changes in his face and body as Clint prepares him for the final act; Bucky's eyes go out of focus first, his palms braced to either side of Clint's head to hold himself still, his breath coming in shallow pants, the long muscles in his thighs jumping like the flanks of a flybit horse whenever Clint's fingers brush that sensitive spot inside. The second finger makes him breathe in sharply, his eyes almost entirely pupil now; Clint's free hand rubs and strokes Bucky's cock to ease the process, a combination that makes Bucky shudder hard and lower his head, biting his own lip to confine his groan of _god yes more_ to his chest and not the open air. 

Clint's happy to oblige in this arena; the third finger slides in easily, accompanied only by a sigh and a twitch of Bucky's shoulders, and when he withdraws his hand Bucky takes the initiative once more, reaching behind him to center the archer's dick before he sinks himself down onto it. This time there's no containing either of their noises, a soft groan for Clint and a sharp hiss for Bucky - he's rushed things a little in his haste to get Clint inside him, and Clint knows from the noise to let him have a minute to adjust to the burn and stretch, focusing on thumbing the head of Bucky's member to ease the transition. 

"You okay?" he whispers; Bucky nods, his breathing tight, but after a minute he starts to _move_ and damn but that's excellent, the slide and pressure against his dick, hot as the heart of a star, the occasional brief clampings of muscle around him, enveloping him, inviting him further inside. 

Bucky himself is a thing of beauty, his palms braced on Clint's chest, one bonfire-blazing and the other cool as ceramic tile; his face is scrunched in concentration, eyes fixed on Clint's face, and Clint strokes his cock with one hand and clamps down on his hips with the other, pushing himself up into Bucky, just to see his lips part and his breath gasp as he drinks in everything Clint has to offer. The rhythm is manic at first, but they quickly find their pace - Bucky, for once, is the first to near the end, shivering all over as he fucks himself on Clint, head low and groaning deep in his chest, gasping Clint's name over and over when he has the breath to speak. It's the hottest thing Clint has ever fucking _seen_ , and as Bucky spurts into his hand and across his belly Clint comes with a shout, eyes wide open and pouring himself deep inside, still bucking upward, fucking them both right on through their respective orgasms, the rest of the world forgotten entirely -

\- right up until there's a _massive_ flash of light and heat, and the noise of an explosion rocks the Macedonian valley.

Bucky and Clint stare wide-eyed at one another for a second, then they both twist to glance at the tablet. It displays two windows, one that says **BUFFERING: 100%** and another that claims **DETONATION CODES ACTIVATED. HAVE A NICE DAY :)** Clint can vaguely see out of the corner of one eye the outline of a fiery mushroom cloud rising from the former HYDRA base site, drifting up into the night sky.

They lock gazes again, for a moment maintaining their sobriety, before Bucky falls forward in a collapse of laughter, giggling helplessly against Clint's chest. Clint himself isn't much better off, though he turns _scarlet red_ when the unexpected voice of Maria Hill chimes in on his commset, still snugged into his ear: 

_"We have confirmation of detonation, agents, and your extract team is enroute to pick you up. Now, if you don't mind, would you **turn your commsets off** next time you're on a mission together?" _


End file.
